


Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Who Farted (Sherlock/John, R)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Butts, Halibut, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, butt-crime, celiac disease, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I shall use my deductive skills to pinpoint the culprit of this heinous butt-crime,” Sherlock announced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of Who Farted (Sherlock/John, R)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to AO3 user nightmoth, who requested a story with Mycroft in it.

It was evening, and John sat awkwardly on his recliner watching Sherlock and Mycroft intoxicate themselves.  
  
“Yes,” said Mycroft, attempting to light his cigar. “This is the life.” Mycroft was halfway through a glass of scotch.  
  
“I suppose,” said John, not really sure how to respond. He hadn't felt like drinking that night.  
  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered for a moment before they settled on John.  
  
“Urgh,” he said, a string of drool dripping onto his shirt. He had just shot a tenth-gram of heroin.  
  
Suddenly there was a smell.  
  
Mycroft gagged as the fumes hit his nostrils. “What is that diabolical stench?”  
  
“Someone farted,” said John as he pulled his shirt over his nose. It didn’t help. “Oh god, I can feel it in my lungs.”  
  
“It smells as though I have been transported to the very depths of Satan’s asshole,” said Mycroft, flicking his lighter desperately.  
  
John dry heaved into his shirt.  
  
“I'm leaving,” he said, sitting up.  
  
“Wait!” yelled Sherlock, shooting up from his chair. A needle fell to the ground from his arm. “We cannot leave this mystery unsolved.” His face was impassive, seemingly impervious to the miasma of sulfurous gas that pervaded the room.  
  
“Oh god, seriously?” moaned John.  
  
Mycroft puffed his cigar.  
  
“I shall use my deductive skills to pinpoint the culprit of this heinous butt-crime,” Sherlock announced.  
  
He began pacing the room. The veins on his left arm bulged where a forgotten tourniquet remained. He sniffed the air vigorously.  
  
John tried not to be sick.  
  
“I detect elements of . . . fish,” Sherlock said deductively. “Yes--lots of fish, and a hint of rosemary. Not a usual spice used with fish, so perhaps part of a side dish.”  
  
He whirled around and pointed a finger at John. “Was the dinner I made for you tonight not a superb halibut fillet with rice pilaf?”  
  
Mycroft now stared at John accusingly.  
  
“Oh come now,” Mycroft said to John. “Could you not have gone into the hallway to commit your colonic war crimes?”  
  
“I didn’t do it!” cried John futily.  
  
“Or,” intoned Sherlock, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face his brother. “Perhaps it was _you_ , Mycroft. I checked your browser history, you know.”  
  
Mycroft glanced about furtively.  
  
“I, uh, have no idea what you're talking about,” he said, beginning to sweat.  
  
“You have seven distinct fart fetish websites bookmarked,” Sherlock continued. “In fact, you visited fartmaidens.com on my desktop while I was away, which is what prompted me to investigate your internet proclivities.”  
  
John made a face. "Really, Mycroft? That's just gross."  
  
“I seem to recall,” said Sherlock, “that a common theme was the sexual thrill one received after forcing his companions to sniff his gasses.”  
  
“Okay,” said John. “I’m not sure we really need to hear more about-”  
  
“No!” interrupted Mycroft, who leapt to his feet. “If you had snooped through my history, you would know that I am only interested in nubile young women, so innocent and fresh, who have no choice but to be nasally despoiled by my flatular expulsions.”  
  
John shook his head in disgust.  
  
“Don’t judge me,” said Mycroft, face red. “I may be a fart-dealing pervert, but I am not _gay_! I would never allow two men to share in the olfactory pleasures of my buttocks! Least of all my own brother.”  
  
"Mr. Fart Rapist over there has a pretty good point,” said John. “You don’t know half of what you’re talking about.” He glared at Sherlock. “You didn’t even realize that I never took a bite of your damned halibut.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah,” said John. “That’s right. I stopped for a curry on the way home.”  
  
“What?” asked Sherlock, appearing genuinely perplexed. “You knew this was supposed to be our dinner night. Why would you get Indian takeout?”  
  
“Because I’m British,” explained John patiently, “and I couldn’t stop and get fish and chips because we already covered halibut in this conversation, so curry remains my only narrative option to fit within the stereotype.”  
  
“Sure,” said Sherlock. “That part is obvious. I meant why would you get food at all when I'm cooking for you.”  
  
“Oh,” said John, rubbing his back. “Every time you cook I fall asleep really early and wake up with a sore butt. I’m starting to think it isn’t a coincidence.”  
  
“Excuse me, Sherlock,” interrupted Mycroft, deftly stopping this story from going anywhere gay. “I can’t help but notice that you have offered neither defense nor explanation that would exonerate you from being the perpetrator of this fart-crime.”  
  
“Hey, yeah!” agreed John, who was ready to latch onto anything that distracted him from the growing certainty that he had probably been raped in the past.  
  
Mycroft pointed at Sherlock. “You are the farter!”  
  
“No!” Sherlock said.  
  
“Then prove it!” said John, now on his feet and flush with anger. Though to be fair, he was probably more angry about the rape than the farts.  
  
“I did not eat the fish either,” said Sherlock. “It was . . . uh . . . made especially for John. There were certain ingredients that did not agree with me.”  
  
“Oh, right,” said Mycroft, rolling his eyes. “Your ‘celiac disease.’”  
  
“Pretty sure he means the rohypnol,” said John through clenched teeth.  
  
“Anyway!” said Sherlock hurriedly. “Whom do we know who would wish to cause us discomfort and just bought a fish cannery for as of yet unknown reasons?”  
  
“Moriarty,” whispered John and Mycroft in unison.  
  
“Just so,” nodded Sherlock. “And I think I have deduced the mechanism for his revenge.”  
  
Sherlock made his way to the far end of the room and pulled the grate off the air duct above the doorway.  
  
“Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, reaching into the deep recesses of the apartment’s central air system.  
  
He pulled out a brass clockwork contraption with a conspicuous inflated balloon attached.  
  
“This is the work of Professor Moriarty, also known as the Napoleon Of Crime and occasionally referred to as the God-Emperor Of Flatulence,” he said, impressed by Moriarty’s cunning, though in retrospect the professor’s title as the God-Emperor Of Flatulence probably should have been a bigger clue.  
  
“Damn that man,” said John.  
   
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “He undoubtedly rigged up this devious machination to bathe us in his infernal, malodorous ass-squeezings as a method of revenge.”  
  
“Well it worked,” said Mycroft, pinching his nose.  
  
“Yes, you solved the mystery, good job and all that,” said John. “With that concluded, I am leaving now.”  
  
“Indeed,” said Mycroft. “Good evening to you, gentlemen.”  
  
And with that, they both left. Mycroft hurried out with some speed; John was not far behind, though he did pause to meet Sherlock’s eyes with a thousand-yard stare that spoke volumes before shaking his head and exiting.  
  
Sherlock sat back in his chair and relaxed, seemingly impervious to the rank odor that still lingered like the memories of unwanted sexual assault his roommate was no doubt dealing with via copious amounts of alcohol and tears.  
  
He briefly reflected on that, but ultimately came to the conclusion that rape was merely a trivial detail thrown in to give John a back story and depth of character, and therefore was perfectly acceptable. This was a good thing, he reasoned, and thus absolved himself of all responsibility. He was dimly aware that anyone with even the barest shred of empathy would be repulsed by his actions, and that of the people likely to stumble across this in narrative form only a truly sick person could sympathize with his perspective--or even, god forbid, take pleasure in it, but he did not concern himself with such matters. There were advantages, after all, to being a sociopath.  
  
Sherlock laughed to himself. John and Mycroft hadn’t noticed that the balloon was still perfectly full; Moriarty’s device had failed. Had it been successful, Sherlock had no doubt that the spectre of Moriarty's rectum would have haunted them with a far more debilitating nausea than he could produce. Fortunately for him, however, the professor’s device had malfunctioned, though it had certainly provided the perfect cover.  
  
Content with this evening’s outcome, Sherlock pulled out a tin of sardines and began eating them, farting happily into his armchair.


End file.
